The Fire
by Pics
Summary: Some things cannot be owned. - I'm fully expecting you guys to hate this, so don't hold back.


The Fire

A drunk staggered by into alley, and John huddled deeper into the shadow of the rubbish dump, hiding behind the upturned collar of his old tweed coat. The man reached for a fire ladder to steady himself, muttering coarsely when he missed and fell against the wall. Somehow he managed to stay upright and undo his fly. The autumn wind carried the scent of wet leaves and sweat, mingling with urine as the hot liquid spluttered steaming against the bricks. John held his breath, waiting for the intruder to leave. He had nothing of value, but that didn't mean you couldn't pick up a senseless beating. The man used his hand to wipe his nose, cleared his throat noisily and spat out a blob of phlegm. John wrinkled his nose, retreating deeper into the darkness, his back pressed against the wall. A paper bag rustled under his weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the still night.

"Hey!" The man turned towards John in the alley, walking unsteadily towards the rubbish dump. "Hey!" he said again, smiling as his eyes made out John's squatting shape. 

"What have we here?" he murmured. John jerked away from his fingers. "Nice coat." the stranger said, rubbing the thick fabric between thumb and forefinger. "You've come a long way, old man." 

John stared back at the drunken oaf in silence. Bitter experience had taught him what an ill-considered gesture, the wrong word could do. He was old, his bones didn't appreciate violence anymore. The stranger's lips pulled into a thin smile. John flinched back when he reached into his jacket, but the man pulled out a quart of whiskey and held it out to John. 

"Take it, old man. You need it more than me." He pressed the bottle into John's hand and staggered into the streetlights on the main road. John's eyes followed him, his left still clutching the bottle. He turned it to read the label, hating the charity, but not hating it enough to discard the drink without checking what he was rejecting. It was 12 year old Glenfiddich, the cheapest they did but still good quality, and 49% proof. His mind automatically registered the pure alcohol content, rating its properties as fuel. 

The fire. That was his greatest regret. Once he had been able to command its fierce roar and wild, expansive beauty, its voracious hunger ever only caressing but never touching him. He had been the master of the fire, once. Then his body had aged. His hearing had deteriorated together with his eyesight, forcing him to regard the world in a deafened squint, and if he chose to rise from his crouched position on the street, his joints would ache and creakily announce their protest. He was old. 

For 62 years, he had belonged to the fire. And he remembered: the wild energy and heat, devouring flame, the delicate balance between fuel and energy and himself as the master of it all, free. But all that was over. He had always needed help, a catalyst to call the blaze, but now his command failed him. He was weak. John raised the bottle to his lips and stopped without drinking. He screwed the lid back on and slowly got up, one hand braced against the wall. He couldn't even say what bothered him more, his aching back or the sharp pain in his knees as he unfolded himself from his crouched position. Soon, it wouldn't matter anymore. 

He shuffled into the middle of the alley, away from the rubbish dump. With a last appreciative glance at the label, he emptied the bottle, dousing his thick felt coat. It wasn't much, not nearly enough to soak through his clothes, but it would keep the flame alive until it had enough strength to consume the damp fabric. His fingers were steady as he snapped open the zippo lighter and touched it to the wet patch on his shoulder. 

The flame sprang to life with a soft pop, a sound he had so loved. It travelled the length of his arm, slowly singeing the wet coat where he had not primed the fabric with the stranger's gift. He watched with detached wonder as the light enveloped his hand and wriggled his fingers with the flames dancing over his skin before the pain struck him. He threw his head back in an involuntary rictus, mouth open in a silent agony. The flame continued mercilessly, blistering his skin and scorching fabric. 

He had been right, of course, the initial slow burn of the alcohol had been enough to dry out his heavy coat, and he stood now like a tree of flames, fingers contorted to claws and arms wrenched into gnarled branches of fire. He sagged to his knees with a groan. With his next inhalation, the flame surged on his breath, charring his airways. There was not enough air to scream, and his lungs collapsed, John fell to his side on the ground, drenching the world in torture. 

When he was spent, the fire went out, hissing softly in the light rain. John watched his fickle lover depart, glassy-eyed, gasping for breath. He still belonged to the fire. It seemed odd now that he had never realised that the fire didn't belong to him. His old lighter glistened on the ground, and he curled his hand around it. He would not die alone. 

- The End -


End file.
